Author: Penny Potter

Freedom. Adventure. Curiosity. Laughter. Nature.

It’s not all beer and skittles.

Posted in those daysTagged , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

We’ve all had them and we’ve all hated ’em. I’m talking about those day. Those days that need no explanation except a shake of the head, a shrug of the shoulders and a frown to explain.

You know the ones. I’m talking about the days when plans of mooching around and getting an all-over tan are replaced with plans for a mercy dash to see a sick relative. That’s never great news, but it does not always spoil the day.

It can deepen, however, when you smash a precious heirloom while vacuuming. Mum still does not know about that one.

If, at that stage, your day still looks redeembale, you should probably go the the hairdressers and spot the gray hair in the your fringe.

To be clear, this was my reality a few days ago. It’s not my first gray hair, but certainly the first one I’ve seen from a distance, not from combing back my hair with a magnifying glass searching for some subtle hint that I could be growing up. It was a shock and it did not improve the day.

It’s not over yet.

A five-hour drive from Tamworth to Sydney at night was waiting for me after I’d done the school run and picked up my mum.

Driving at night on a winding road where drivers see it as a personal challenge to drive as close to your bumper as possible adds another edge. That’s not a good time to put on the this-is-how-hard-Chinese-Mandarin-is-and-you’ll-never-learn-it CD. That does not really bolstered confidence. I guess I should have started earlier learning that particular language.

This is not a day which will end with a deep blue cheese, a vintage Merlot and the sunset.

So, clearly, not every day is a winner. And if it’s going downhill, chances are it will pick up speed. Attitude is everything on these days.

When I was working as a barista, I remember one customer splashing coffee all over herself. A big, piping cup of brown milky goodness was splashed across her white shirt. She shook her head in resignation. “It’s been one of those days,” she said, clearly reigned to the fate of her day. I was having a splendid day and imagined her missing the bus and tripping over her dirty clothes, but I sensitively tried to hide that.

The best part about one of those days is that they finish. And the next day, you can make it a winner – that’s the trick!

The Everest surprise.

Posted in snow shovellingTagged , , , , , , , 1 Comment

When I thought of visiting Mount Everest I truly thought I was headed to the peak. Oh yeah, I had my Aussie flag packed to stick into the summit. I was even concerned about whether my camera would work in such harsh conditions.

Alas, I did some further reading and realised that journey would require a better jacket and infinitely greater experience. I would not be getting so deep in the snow.

My expectations of the hike to Everest base camp and the Cho-Las Pass nearby were limited by my ignorance and lack of research. Looking back, it was definitely the hardest, most gruelling physical challenge I have ever taken part in. That was not superbly surprising.

There were a feww surprises. The enthusiasm the porters showed for shovelling snow was top of my list.

The porters in the Khumbu (Everest) region blew my mind. Originally I had planned to carry my own backpack, but I struggled to get it off the conveyor belt and through customs and I didn’t rate my chances of getting it up a mountain. Reluctantly, I decided to particiapte in the Nepalese systems which demands the men and women carry huge loads on their back and heads, often wrecking their spines. I saw one sturdy young chap carrying 116kgs. In thongs! 

I’m still not sure of the moralities and wonder whether I made the right decision to hire a porter. What I am happy about is that I met Manbadhur. He was a real character with a twinkle in his cheeky eyes, a penchant for the local rice wine, a very handy sense of direction, a deviousness with cards and a bag of roasted corn that he’d share.

Often the porters help out at the lodges. I’m not sure if this was community spirit or to earn their keep. But, on day seven, the snow shovelling that was entertaining the rabble of porters enticed me. It seemed a good team-building exercise.

It’s a suprisingly satisfying activity, if a little precarious in thongs. An honest day’s work, Shorn Lowry would probably say.

Nepalese people are habitually hospitable, I reckon.  I passed one sign in Kathmandu that read “Tourist is God.”

I was not entirely comfortable with the approach. My egalitarian nature took over and produced some interesting results. Manbadhur and I had a ball with some shovels and a decent patch of snow that needed to be moved. We might as well have been slugging back tequila shots and eating tacos, it was that fun.

But, the owner was quite embarassed and begged me to stop helping. Naturally, I obliged, at least once the good photo opportunities were exhausted and the bottoms of my last pair of fresh pants were sopping wet.

And, with all the snow gone, the next day Manbadhur joined us for the day hike up the Gokyo Ri, a spectacular mountain overlooking the world’s highest freshwater lakes (at least that’s what the sign says).

I enquired about taking a dip in the lake, but our conservative guide informed me that’s it’s Holy and swimming, of course, would contaminate that Holiness. I guess I can get my hypothermia fix elsewhere.

 

And, even though I did not stand atop the mighty Everest, I did glimpse it a few times. The first was after the gruelling pre-dawn, pre-breakfast hike up Gokyo Ri.

The surprise here was how close it looked. And how barren Everest is compared to its close neighbours.

Of course, Manbadhur was by our side. He may have forgotten his shovel, but could still pose like a Playboy model.

Mooching made easy.

Posted in TamworthTagged , , , , , 3 Comments

I can almost hear the vegetables and the grass growing out here. It is luscious near Tamworth at the moment. And the ardent agriculture provides the perfect backdrop for some mooching.

Early in the mornings I like to go out and check how much rain we have had. I see little sense in this country routine. I guess it’s more spectacular when there is something in the gauge to check. For now, it seems like polishing boots and putting them back in the cupboard. An utterly useless pursuit that makes you feel like you’ve done something useful.

After I have confirmed that, yes, my suspicions were correct and, no, there was not a spectacular weather event in the night. I will ponder the horizons for a moment. Mostly this involves walking around the house very aimlessly.

It’s not a bad view, really, for my morning espresso. Strangely there are no men in lycra in these parts.

Inevitably, I’m drawn to dad’s vegies like a kid to vending machine. This is dad’s killer tomato that I mistook for a pumpkin. I think he is waiting for the Tomato Festival so he can show it off to all the other vegetable-growing freaks around here.

The other garden is still in that phase I liken to a baby before it is crawling. It looks so neat and tidy, but it is not actually able to bring anything to the table, yet.

The day is broken up when Ma and Pa return from their jobs in Tamworth City. This means dad sits in an office and dreams about his country music career that has been cruelly halted by his love for mowing the lawn. As soon as he is home it’s straight to the mower for my dad. He is never happier than when he’s just had his afternoon fix behind the Rover.

After this, we watch the sunset. Out here they seem more crisp.

 The colours don’t linger quite so long.

And, as soon as the sun disappears behind the hay shed it is instantly chilly.

Hibernating at my parent’s house is, obvioulsy, fairly relaxing. It’s also nice, because it gives me an insight into their lives. I’ve been blessed with some pretty awesome parents. They’re great fun and nicely open-minded. As their kid, I’m lucky in that they still seem to genuinely enjoy each other’s company.

All around the house I have spotted the places where Ma and Pa (I used to call them mum and dad before they moved to Tamworth, FYI) hang out. It’s very cute.

This must be where they sit and have fires, I have surmised.

And this is the sunset-watching possie.

Or, as it happened yesterday, that’s also the spot Ma and I took up to watch dad mow the lawn.

So, you see, there’s plenty to do in the country

A country life.

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Birds were trilling outside my window as I woke up in my idyllic new neighbourhood today. Of course, a tractor was humming too, but it was refreshing to breathe in the crisp country air. Such is life beyond the city limits.

I grew up in the country and have always considered myself a bush rat as opposed to a city puppy. It’s a mindset, really, being a Country Girl, and it comes with a learned set of eccentricities.

My heritage was called into question recently when I was escorting an elderly gentleman to an appointment. “You must be from the country to have a car this dirty,” he remarked as he got into my Apollo.

Then, while he scraped bits of toast, pens, carrot stubs and my horse whip from the front seat to spruce it up a little, I basked in the idea that my country inheritance has given me a lifelong excuse to have a filthy car.

However, after living in cities for six years, I have a greater affinity with metro living. I still love the open paddocks that stretch for miles and the silence that is broken only by the wind whistling through the trees and a tractor making hay. For instance, today I was thrilled to wake up and realise I had sporadic phone reception. I loved that my view was not interrupted by an overpass or a tall building.

But my inner-city-theatre-going-latte-swilling side came to the fore as I switched on my laptop and connected to the web. Thank God there is internet out here!

I dragged my espresso machine out of the car and got down to the business of checking news headlines, Facebook and, of course, blogging.

I emailed a few mates then got on the blower and called a few others. Clearly, I’m happy to live in the bush, but less impressed by the idea of going it alone. Or maybe I’m just easing myself into the new way of living.

The best part was that I could be sitting outside, overlooking a succulent crop of hay or lucerne or rice or something like that, and be chatting to my mates about the shenanigans at the party on Friday night. And so the divide between city and country lessens.

It astounds me that when I’m engrossed in my city existence, which I’m already romanticising into a life filled with art gallery visits, top-notch restaurants and non-stop parties, I forget so easily about what’s on offer elsewhere.

I have seen three people so far today. One was on a tractor, another was in a truck and the third in a boring old car. Without prompting, all three waved at me as they passed.

Not an exuberant wave-goodbye-as-i-drive-off-into-the-sunset-and-pop-your-should-from-its-socket type wave, but a laconic subtle wave. Just four fingers coming off the wheel to say ‘you’re here, I’m here and ain’t that great.’

I love that gesture and the sense of community I feel even though I’ve been here for all of five minutes.

Or perhaps I’m being all city about it and over-thinking a wave. Typical.

But, to me, that’s what the country is all about. I find it slightly simpler lifestyle and that’s a good thing. It’s waking up in the morning and not hearing a thousand SUVs rushing to get their kids to school, but instead noting the bus trundling past.

It’s the ease of trotting out to the garden in the morning to grab some lettuce and tomatoes. I have to add here that my father’s vegie garden is prolific. I came across a pumpkin today sitting up with some flowers about a metre above the ground. “That’s not right,” I thought. “Pumpkins grow on the ground.” A closer inspection revealed that, in fact, it was a tomato grown on my dad’s secret compost mix.

It’s all so lovely. Maybe it strikes such a chord because it reminds me of my childhood, sitting in a garden and devouring an entire crop of beans in one sitting.

Anyway I’m not going to question why I love it so much. I’m just going to indulge in one of the delightful pumpkin scones my mum picked up at the Pumpkin Festival yesterday – yes, that’s right, a festival for pumpkins. It was one of the better festivals, according to my dad. It was certainly much better than the Brussels Sprout Festival.

So, I’ll enjoy my scone, but I’ll tell you all about it on the internet. And maybe next time I’m driving through the city I’ll try waving at every passing motorist.

Let the adventure begin.

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Driving out of BrisVegas this morning after saying a final farewell to an era, a seven-hour abyss stretched before me. I was a mixed bag of emotions, but I had plenty of time to sort the Wizz Fizz from the snakes on the way to my folks’ place at Tamworth.

Herein lies the brilliance of a road trip. Time is your friend. I could indulgently ponder saying goodbye to Brisbane, the great mates I had there and other important issues, such as whether tequila shots would be ok with limes or if it definitely has to be lemons. Of course, due to the driving I could not test out the limes versus lemons issue, but I could certainly think about it at length.

I’m a big fan of car trips. It’s a product of my childhood. Every school holidays Ma and Pa would lug my brothers and me to Sydney or Cowra or Bundaberg or Pindari Dam. They would go anywhere, as long as it meant at least eight hours a day in the Commodore.

Cricket season was the best, at least according to my Dad. We would start the driving about 20 minutes before the first ball and stop for sangers when the cricketers were called in for lunch. The cricket commentators were great company.

Sometimes we’d arrive at a location, park a few streets away and listen to a nail-gripping finish, all packed in the car like prisoners being transported to a new facility. At least it felt like prison to a young girl keen to play with her dolls and get away from her stinky brothers after eight hours of noogies.

Today, there was no cricket. But I managed to get through with help from Triple J and a bit of ABC Radio National. There was one rather interesting radio documentary about why humans have hair and why women get it waxed. It was incredibly interesting. And the best part was I could dedicate the entire stretch between Tenterfield and Gen Innes, which takes about an hour, to thinking about why a woman should or should not get a Brazilian wax. Fascinating stuff.

I had time to think about the mammoth clean we did at the house yesterday. Ten hours of wall scrubbing wore Shorn, Amber and I to thin shadows of our former selves. Today I marvelled at the sense of achievement you get from cleaning and Lowry’s ability to turn anything into a game.

Cleaning the fridge, for example, involved seeing how far away you could be from the Westinghouse and still stick a magnet on it through Frisbee-like throws.

A pile of rubbish on its way to the tip becomes Junk-enga.

Reflecting on those sorts of shenanigans and the underlying optimism took up a good 20 minutes.

The scenery and sunset also impressed me. Of course, it’s no Tasmania but the area around Warwick is stunning as it looks out to the ocean. The shadow of Bluff Rock near Tenterfield was eerie. Luscious pastures turned to burnt brown grass like a game of Wheel of Fortune as I meandered south. Further into the New England hinterland the lanky poplar trees in a stunning autumn-yellow reminded me of my time at university Armidale. Recalling the goon-fuelled shenanigans took up at least an hour.

I even drove past an entire field of sunflowers. That was like staring at a sea of smiles.

Stopping in for a few cuppa at the Driver Reviver, that really put a smile on my face. I mean, it’s tea and it’s free. Wow!

And my car, a 22-year vintage Holden Apollo, she purred down the highway, pleased to be unleashed from the shackles of city driving.

The whole trip was lovely really; exciting, thought-provoking and relaxing. It was all of those good things until I was about 50 kilometres from Tamworth. That’s when time stood still.

I busted open my second bag of carrots (emergency rations) and called my Mum. She was getting dinner ready. “Anything you’d like,” she asked me, excitedly. “Yeah, maybe some tuna and steamed vegetables,” I replied.

“Well you’ll just get what you’re given, Pen,” she says. Looks like it’s oven-roasted spuds.

So after saying goodbye to my mates and a few hours behind the wheel, I drove into Ma and Pa’s. Dad came out in his boxer shorts and directed me into the yard as if my car was a Jumbo Jet. “Penny! Welcome home,” he yelled. I was so pleased to see him.

I know in this adventure, indeed in our life, it’s all about the journey, not the destination. I know that, but seeing my folks tonight put the field of sunflowers to shame.

Secrets to a happy office.

Posted in office politicsTagged , , , , , , 3 Comments

I won the lottery two years ago when I was offered a job at a small media company in Brisbane.

I had an inkling it was going to be good fun. I had met the crew before and they were both exceptionally good looking. Like really, really Good Looking; Zoolander-esque.

 Looking back as I prepare to tearfully depart, it’s been a damn fine few years. Much to my flatmates chagrin I have often bounced home in the afternoon declaring I’ve had “the best day ever.” Or, worse, on a Sunday night I sometimes tell the roomies I am excited about getting back to work. They look at me as if I’ve developed a pustule-like tropical disease. I can see the fear in their eyes as they worry it’s contagious.

 For those of you not lucky enough to be pushing a mower in the Great Outdoors, offices can be a real treat. Aside from the perils, including the real risk of developing admin ass (the flattening of the buttocks due to large amounts of time spent sitting idle) and the possibility of consuming too much cake at the ubiquitous morning and afternoon teas; there is a great amount of fun to be had in offices.

 I find there is a good six hours a day that can be spent developing puns. Ah, the wittiness coming out of my office puts Ricky Gervais to shame. Perhaps he could put some Extra effort in to get up to our lofty standard.

 Another good way to pass the day is to practise shooting paper wads into the bin. My boss loves this game so much he misses on purpose, at least I think that’s his caper. I’m certain he cannot actually be that bad at the game.

When you tire of that, it’s a good time to bring in extra props. 3D glasses from the movies, for example, are excellent value. The glasses provides a great distraction when Judy from O H and S is being a pain in the ask. Plus, you can see things in much greater detail, in three dimensions at least.

 Another great way to burn a 15-minute slot is Song of the Day. Each office member takes a turn to show the others how terrible their taste in music really is. There is great potential for judging others in this little event. And you’re likely to find out who is a raging commo and who is a fascist.

 I also recommend finding an employer with a young child. They provide oodles of fun. I especially like magic tricks which require you to casually “close your eyes” as a tiny trinket is stowed away up a sleeve. It’s so endearing to see the look on their face as they say “see, it’s disappeared,” and flounce off. It really completes the day.

 I also like to indulge in a spot of singing here and there. This one is actually not for everyone. Luckily, I have the voice of an angel, so it creates a nice vibe in the office.

 Extra-curricular activities are also important. There was the time when I had to research Brisbane’s best bars. I still wonder if getting paid to achieve mild inebriation will be the pinnacle of my career. The lesson there is to find a job where you share common ground with your employers. A shared love of booze won’t hurt anyone, at least in small amounts.

A shared love of hot milky beverages is also important. Some of the best creative-brainstorming/procrastinating occurs when a strong latte or a cup of tea is on the table.

 Enhancing your career is also a bonus in the office stakes. Yesterday somebody told me my writing had vim. After I researched the word – and what a fabulous word it is – I put that compliment down to my years here. In a leafy street in the Brisbane ‘burbs I learned to write.  

The lesson here: a collegial environment is nice. Try to learn from your colleagues.

This means you have to be open and realise the person sitting at the desk beside you is likely to be much cleverer than you are. In their school tests they probably placed a little further to the right on the bell curve.

That’s ok. If you leave your ego at the door they can probably show you how to use an apostrophe and spell the names of political parties.

 Mostly, I recommend you find people to share your days with that you genuinely like. It’ll make getting through the slog like slicing through butter with a sharp, hot blade instead of trying to put a ten-person tent up in a gale.

It’s a Runner’s thing.

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There is no greater feeling than running along decked out in exercise gear, huffing and puffing, perspiration beading off your eyebrows and encountering someone with a pizza box in their hands. The self-righteousness is palpable.

Of course, if you were the dude with the pizza you’d be thinking the runner was absolute meathead.

I believe there are two types of people in the world: those who run and those who do not.

Fortunately I am both of those people. On Saturdays I hang out at the hot chip shop during the day and the pizza parlour by night. It’s a blissful, hedonistic existence.

Then, on Sundays I like to drive down to the Kangaroo Point cliffs on the Brisbane River and join all the other suckers looking for non-existent parking slots. It’s hilarious watching all the runners drive around like fools, ready to hit the pavement, but unable to find a place to covertly stow away their SUV.

It’s like watching flower girls and page boys trying to scrape confetti off the pavement and shove it back in the box. Oh the irony – you can run anywhere, you know?

It’s doubly hilarious for the person walking past with an aromatic pizza.

But, of course, that sucker is probably going to end up feeling a little bloated and will miss out on the legendary Runner’s High.

And you really do have to join the Running Fraternity, which, I’m afraid, does mean you’ll have to join all the other rabbits looking for parks on a Sunday, to understand the elusive High.

You’ll probably have to start using throwaway phrases such as ‘oh yeah I went for a light jog yesterday. I’m nursing an injury. My fifth metatarsal is twinging again, so I’m trying to limit myself to about 9 kilometres.’

And then you can start forking out some serious coin to wake up offensively early on a Sunday and run along the bitumen with your Running Friends.

I know all of that sounds a tad foolish, and frankly that’s because you are going to look a fool at some stage in your Running Career, but it will be worth it. The Runner’s High is better than drugs. Or so I’ve heard from some of my more rebellious Running Pals.

I joined the Fraternity a few years ago when another member recruited me to run the City to Surf in Sydney. It is a beautiful and exciting run starting in Sydney’s luscious city parks, running through the red light district, King’s Cross, and past the exclusive Rose Bay, which is breathtaking, and then along the headland to Bondi Beach.

The famous Heartbreak Hill in the middle of the run separates the city from the beach. It’s 2 kilometres you will not forget. I still recall Daft Punk dragging me up with Robot Rock. Plus, the hill is sponsored by RSVP and what is not to love about signs that tell you “you’re so hot right now,” as you’re about to collapse? Not even a dead pig is that sexy.

Residents on the track get into the spirit, too. Some will form rock bands to spur you on. Others will come outside and clap in a rather lame manner. That’s still nice.

And it’s only 14 kilometres. An easy trot, at least for a Runner.

Since my first City to Surf, my Running Career has spanned a few more fun runs, another City to Surf and a half marathon, one of my proudest achievements.

Now, when I come across a particularly difficult task, such as peeling potatoes with a left-handed peeler, I think to myself “I did that bloody half marathon, so I can peel these cheeky spuds.” Sure, I may have had to pay 90 bucks for the pleasure of waking up at 4am to run along an empty highway, but it’s that feeling of accomplishment I remember.

After the half marathon the crew I ran with joined together is a Runner’s Celebration. We indulged in an all-you-can-eat feast at Sizzler.

And that is how easy it is to slide between the dude with the pizza and the chick in lycra.

 

 

Travel through the ages.

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Seize the day. Live in the moment. Don’t let opportunities pass you by. Chase your dreams.

Blah blah blah.

For all the motivational talk going around it has not become easier to tick things off the bucket list.

Leaving family behind; that’s always going to be a clincher. Take a squiz at this photo of my Ma and me before I left for South America. I was 20 and casually heading to the other side of the world by myself. Freaked out doesn’t cover it.

 

And then there’s leaving your mates. Essentially saying ‘well, it’s been nice partying with y’all, but I’m off.’ Stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

 Leaving work, a house, packing things into boxes and throwing stuff out. Rarely do cheesy slogans tell you what needs to go in different sized boxes. Figuring out how to get your bond back is an entirely different Google search.

Posters are more likely to be a romantic ride-off-into-the-sunset, meet-you-at-Machu-Picchu affair. Still, if you are inspired, the practical details will work themselves out.

 Today’s story is about a man I met in Ecuador. Possibly one of the loveliest, most inspiring and good-humoured men I have ever shared a pot of tea with.

 I met Chris (and, yes, that’s his real name) at a youth hostel in Quito. His disposable income, which was definitely heads above the other clientele, made this guy stand out. Plus, he had a wicked southern English accent and was about 40 years older than everyone else.

 

As an engineer he’d ticked off most of the places he wanted to see. He’d travelled to every continent. I recall that he built a dam in Afghanistan and lived in the States for a few years. He’d seen more of Australia than I had. But Latin America had, so far, eluded him.

Ecuador appealed to him for its dexterity. In four weeks he’d be able to fit in a few days in dugout canoes in the Amazon, see the mighty Andes (he managed to climb to about 5100 metres in gumboots), and, of course, frolic with the big turtles on the Galapagos.

Honestly, Ecuador is one of those afternoons when you manage to combine blue cheese, crunchy crackers, sweet quince paste and a good red. It caters to every sense.

So Chris and I met in the hostel and then ventured off to climb a mountain. This man had a serious adventurous streak. Perhaps he is Bear Grylls’ dad?

We arrived at the mountain retreat and went on an almighty scramble up a river to see a waterfall. It was a treacherous route with a glacial stream running past us. No worries for Chris. The dude was stubborn enough to make it places a city kid wouldn’t look at twice.

Unsurprisingly, Chris managed to keep up with the steady flow of red wine later that night.

He was bright-eyed in the morning, perhaps still glowing from telling us all about his Triumph car and motorbike. Both had been bought new and carefully preserved.

More hilarious tales ensued on the hike up Mount Cotopaxi, one of the world’s highest active volcanoes. We made it to the glacier together. It was a triumph for me, at 20.

The look on his face showed the immense satisfaction at making the hike as  60-year-old.

Later, we did a coy little swap. I gave him an ugly beanie I had intended for my ex and he shouted me a trip back to town. I think I saved 10 bucks and was thrilled.

We said farewell and he headed off to do some hunting with a native tribe. I headed into the forest for some zip lining.

On a whim I ended up in the Galapagos. We met again serendipitously on a busy street and told tall tales of mermaid antics with seals.

This dude was glowing. I have never seem a man in his 60s look so youthful.

He had conquered diarrhoea, altitude, been at sea for days and had done it all on a timetable that would have freaked out the most frantic working mother.

So, thinking of Chris still motivates me. If he can see the world, so can I, I think. And look how happy he is – I want that.

But what I can’t forget is that there’s no hurry. Don’t forget to live life in between. Don’t live for the holidays. Instead make the routines and everyday moments the stuff of dreams. And those other dreams, the riding-off-into-exotic-sunset dreams, they’ll come too.

After all, Chris was a patient man.

What are you going to do about it?

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I’m not a fan of the conservative approach.

Last night’s election bought in a huge change in Queensland. Change, now that’s not a bad thing.

I hope that a few things can improve in Queensland. My nursing friend who is owed a large sum of money by Queensland Health, I’d love for her to be paid properly. I’d love for public transport to be cheaper. I love for mining magnates to have less input to our democracy.

But, overall, I have few real gripes with the state of my state.

I believe in change and after 14 years of Labor, I’ll try to give it a fair go.

I’m wary, however due to the dramatic power shift. And, I’m not a fan of conservative regimes.

So as this political change is unfolding, I have a proposition. I reckon we could all become a little bit more involved. Paint some signs and honk some horns. Stop showering, if you like.

There were some little protests in the city last week. Some were anti-gay-marriage, the other side were out to defend gay rights.

The important thing is that they were telling people what they wanted.

A good mate of mine who suggested she was late for dinner, because “she was out fighting for gay rights,” had a face flushed with excitement. Not only had she stood up for what she’d believed in, she’d had a great adventure.

I believe hitting the streets, writing letters, signing petitions and chaining yourself random objects is a great way to get your point across. Plus protests can be great fun.

Sure, it requires a break in your routine from work, home and socialising, but maybe it’s time we took a greater interest.

I did not meet anyone during the recent election campaign that felt engaged by the nature of the debate.

Most were dismayed by the spin and the bullshit both leaders were rubbishing our ears with.

I was pissed that Campbell Newman refused to shake the hand of his opponent, Kate Jones, after a debate. But non-gentlemanly habits aside, what is this dude going to do for health and the environment. Is he going to stand up to the mining bully, Clive Palmer? Is he going to improve the environmental score? I doubt it.

For me, the answer now lies in activism. It is time for me to get up off my beige couches (that actually won’t be difficult as they have already been sold and will go soon anyway) and start participating in this democracy.

If there is something I do not like, maybe I will join in some sort of rally, instead of blundering along wondering about my place as a middle-class yuppie. Chatting about issues at dinner parties doesn’t cut it, really.

I remember protests were ubiquitous in South America. Everywhere I went there were people camping out asking for one thing or another. And they were fighting for the money to feed their children. They were fighting for human rights.

They got to camp on the street too. It looked like an almighty adventure.

As a kid, one of my father’s colleagues was a greenie who would tell me about his exploits breaking into government buildings and chaining himself to trees. He had some interesting battles and won a few, I believe.

I was there wide-eyed with my ponytail thinking it sounded like great fun.

Yesterday another guy was telling me about his brother who was an active protester in the UK. The last one he did was against an oil company and involved a few babes rubbing oil into his bare chest.

That sounds like my kind of protest.

I understand, as women, we have less incentive to burn the bra. Things ain’t so bad. But there is stuff to fight for. Watch the news, or, better still, search out the news and get informed.

Believe in causes at home and beyond your backyard. Fight for them.

For me, it’s about taking that leap off the fence. My mother is a great inspiration here. She wrote a few heated letters to the French Prime Minister in her teen years. She was pissed off about the French dropping nukes in the Pacific and tried to stop it. She is also a redhead and quite fiery by nature.

We know that shit like nuclear testing is wrong. She did something. Bravo.

I’m not suggesting we all need to buy new stationary or go a month without a shower.

But it’s not hard to speak up and show the folk in power what you believe about.

Do you think Kevin Rudd would have said sorry to the indigenous people of Australia if there hadn’t been some almighty protests? If a stack of people had not stood up for what they wanted? Unlikely.

And there is whole lot more that needs fighting for in indigenous affairs and elsewhere in Australia.

So, Campbell Newman, good luck. I hope you do some good for Queensland. I’ll let you know how you’re going. Maybe you’ll see my placard.

And to everyone else, there is a great adventure to be had trying to keep the bastards honest.

The Rum Diary. Drink up.

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The trailer for The Rum Diary almost enticed me book a ticket to Puerto Rico.

Such a splendid, free-spirited adventure was always going to inspire me. I could not get to the cinema fast enough to see the famed writer and cult hero, Hunter S. Thompson’s, 1960s journalistic exploits on a sexy Caribbean island.

The minute-and-a-half teaser was full of heaving parties and white-sand beaches; the women were beautiful and, of course, the rum was ubiquitous.

And I do enjoy rum, but never in Australia. I have never pandered to the local Bundaberg-style. The Nepalese brew, strangely, was delightful. I was certain the Puerto Rican liquid would be impressive.

I was lucky enough to land Gold Class tickets for the Rum Diary. Sitting in those recliners with the big screen is fairly awesome. Reclining the chair is not so simple.

My plus-one and I spent a good five minutes searching around for the controls like a gorilla after a banana. I knew the chair must recline, the savvy folk across the aisle were almost horizontal, but the controls eluded us.

I tried pulling up the foot rest and pushing exuberantly on the back rest. It wouldn’t budge. Not an inch.

Finally, a whisper. “They’re electric. Controls on the side.” Ah, so Event Cinemas have moved beyond the wooden lever on the side that was so easy to pull.

Chair antics aside, the movie was even better than the trailer.

The Rum Diary, as my plus-one put it “is a bit of a thinking movie.”

It was not the party-party-sex-on-the-beautiful-beach affair I had anticipated after watching the trailer. Well it is still that, but there is so much more going on.

To give you some background, the young and talented journalist Paul Kemp goes to Puerto Rico to work on a newspaper. He’s also a novelist, although he laments at not being able to find his “voice.”

On the island they drink a whole lot of rum, have some interesting run-ins with the locals and, of course, Kemp falls in love with an unsuitable woman.

Although slow-moving, the movie has all the ingredients: action, love, thought, scandal, violence, sex and a generous pouring of rum.

The cock-fighting scenes, while brutal, are fascinating and provide an interesting cultural insight.

Johnny Depp, of course, plays the enigmatic Kemp with characteristic individuality.

As a writer, Kemp’s search for his “voice” strongly resonated with me.

Throughout the film I noticed the little plot twists that were impacting the character. The emotions, played so mysteriously by Depp – “what is he thinking about what’s going on,” is a question I was constantly asking – are what finally allowed Kemp to write.

There is a whole lot of sh*t that goes down in Puerto Rico on Kemp’s watch. In one way the film romanticises the rum-fuelled exploits, but in another it raises serious questions about the impact of the West on places such as Puerto Rico.

Kemp’s participation in the events in the film and his reaction to them defined his writing style.

So, aside from being an entertaining flick, it is a thinking movie.

I’ve been thinking about my writing style, about what inspires me to write and what my “voice” will be. Or, indeed, what it already is.

Much like Kemp, I believe finding my style is a journey. I have no idea where it will end, but let’s hope there is plenty of rum along the way.